


The Greenest of Greens

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Implied Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, PWP, Trauma, broken wall stuff, implied non con with the devil, sam hallucinations, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's not sure what's real and what isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greenest of Greens

**Author's Note:**

> A customary season seven fic. Sam fucks Dean to escape his hallucinations type thing. There is implied self harm in this. Very implied. I don’t own them!

There’s the pain in his palm, but Sam still doesn’t always know what’s real. Sometimes there’s blood all over things, slick crimson puddles on every surface reflecting back his stricken face, wobbling and pale like a moon. But then sometimes it goes away. Sometimes the walls turn into spiked, white-hot sheet-metal closing in on him. Sometimes out of the corner of his eye he’ll see a chain, a hook, hear a scream, and he’ll shut his eyes or cover his ears and then his hands fall down, slippery with sweat, and it’ll all still be there. 

Lucifer laughs a lot. Sam has the sound of it memorized. 

His palms are braced against the coffee table in Bobby’s getaway cabin, the table that is sometimes a great, heaving, cloven-hoofed beast with burns on its flesh, and he’s staring down at it. He blinks, drives the wooden edge of it into the raw scar of his hand, and waits for the pain to cut out that memorized laughter. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Right now the devil’s muted, but there’s still static. 

Sam stands up and paces, and his brother busts in the door with engine grease on his forearm and a beer bottle gripped loosely in his fingers. 

Sam sees him, and knows, for an instant, what is real. It is the pain of seeing Dean like this. It is the pain of seeing Dean.

“Mmgh, what, _Sam_ \--” Dean thunders out, and glass slips from him, cracks against the floor, shatters. Their boots crunch through the puddle of froth and foam, and they both stumble as Sam fists his way into Dean’s inner-most shirt, the white one closest to his body, warm with his skin. 

“Please,” Sam’s voice skitters in shadow, will wilt in the light. It’s hoarse, alive. “Please Dean, just kiss me.” 

Dean’s eyes turn the greenest of greens. Sam can see what is happening. Their breath is coming out in short, hot burst upon one another’s mouths, and Dean steadies himself with an involuntary grip on Sam’s ribcage, but the twist in his mouth belies his heartbreak. He wants to know what Sam saw, what he sees, he wants to know why Sam’s doing this. He wants everything. Their bodies converge, and Sam falls headlong into the green of Dean’s eyes, the same broken seagreen they have been all the other times he knew he shouldn’t but had to anyway because that’s how things work when you love something enough. The times Sam was too young, the times Sam was lying, the times Sam had no soul, and the times Dean remembered that this was his brother, with the sting of reality, real pain making him burn all over. The greenest of greens. 

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice sounds like a sob. 

“Please,” Sam says, fast. “Please, just, I need you.” 

And Dean lets Sam lick his teeth apart.    
The static is replaced with silence, which is replaced with the sound of blood rushing in Sam’s ears. He swallows a lump of pain, sucks on Dean’s whiskey-tongue, then finally sinks into it as Dean lets go, hands gripped possessively to either side of Sam’s face, kissing him like kissing is just fucking with your mouth. 

They tear down the house in pursuit of the bed, which is turned down and littered with firearms Dean gets rid of with a hardly cautious, blind sweep of his arm because who cared if a gun went off, who cared if they died, this is where they wanted to be. 

Sam’s tears taste like sulfur as they drop into both of their mouths, or maybe he’s just imagining that because he’s not sure what’s real and not, that’s the whole point. His fingers dig bone-breakingly into the flesh of Dean’s back, his teeth find the softness of a lip and bite down, all of him feels the give of muscle flexing and waxing and waning. Dean holds him to the mattress with one hand, struggles out of his jacket and flannel with the other, leaving nothing but the shirt with the remnants of Sam’s hand prints still in it. His mouth gets lost in Sam’s throat, and Sam can’t open his eyes because what if he sees Lucifer. 

Dean is rough, he’s always rough because want makes him graceless, but Sam wants more than rough, he wants pain. His hand, huge and torn, claps down on the back of his brother’s neck and he pulls their mouths together again, tasting blood more than sulfur now. “Need you,” he pants, and Dean hears it but he says it again, “Need you, Dean.” 

“How do you need me?” Dean pleads, voice thick and weak all at once. Then, before he can answer, he says “God, Sammy,” as he rakes his nails up a broad chest, the pressure of longing outrageous, more than most skin can take, but Sam is made from scar tissue. 

“Please, please,” Sam wails, eyes still shut in terror, body writhing on gunpowder sheets. He claws whatever he can reach, last years bruises, the rounded slope of a once dislocated shoulder, the smudge of black oil on the matted down hair of Dean’s forearm. Dean swears, is looming over his brother on all fours. He pushes Sam with all of his strength, crushes him, bites him, forces a knee between the tempered strength of two solid thighs and presses down just until he feels something hard. “Fuck me,” Sam says, and Dean can’t see through the wet of his eyes.    
He hears Dean unbuckling his pants, and struggles out of his own, light exploding behind his eyelids. “Look at me,” his brother mumbles, calloused thumb in Sam’s mouth, choking him, asking the impossible. “Look at me, baby, God, just please, look at me.” 

Just like Dean can’t resist his brother’s fists in his shirt, whether or not he’s too young, lying, soulless, or doesn’t know what’s real or not, Sam can’t resist Dean asking for his eyes. So they fly open, and the devil’s not there because Dean is making his body alight with agony. He spreads his legs, hooks them around Dean’s hips, heels scraping against denim on the way up because Dean can’t even get his levis off all the way. 

“Just do it,” Sam says through gritted teeth, and his voice is so grave that Dean doesn’t pause to raise an eyebrow at him, he just spits in his palm, spreads it across his dick, and pushes into his brother. Their foreheads touch, like a kiss, and Sam is bleeding but the silence remains. 

Dean fucks like he’s coming home, like this is where he belongs and it doesn’t matter that its too tight and Sam is insane, his body is warm and it’s meant for him. Sam tells himself this over and over again, each time Dean’s hips snap and their skin slaps together. _Meant for him meant for him_ because the pain is terrible, but it’s real, and this is what he’s meant for. This is how real life hurts, not how death hurts, not how hell hurts. His nails make white valleys where pinpricks of blood form into pools on Dean’s back, and Dean curses, calls him filthy names, sucks color onto his throat, will regret this but is still doing it. _Meant for him meant for him_. Sam keeps his eyes open, fixed to a familiar scar on Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean comes with a broken sound, then then flips Sam over, pushes him onto his belly and hooks an index finger into the torn, twitching muscle of his ass, sliding it up to his first knuckle easily because everything is sticky with his own seed. “Look at the way you open up for me,” he says to himself, voice hoarse and quiet with awe. “You’re still in this.” 

_I am this_ thinks Sam, gaze lifting to sweep the empty room, the walls that are walls, the table still a table, another second, another minute, another hour free of blood, chains, hooks, screams, laughter. Dean licks up the crack of his ass, pushes him onto his back again then presses his weight flush against Sam’s. “Look at me, baby,” He sighs like all of this hurts him, and because he has to, Sam does, and sees the greenest of greens.


End file.
